


I've Gotten Better At Getting Better

by dontrusthegoat (King_of_Mosquitoes)



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Regret, Self-Blame, angst with no/little happy ending, basically just 1k words of angst, unhealthy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_of_Mosquitoes/pseuds/dontrusthegoat
Summary: Set after Ned Shaw's death. Quill blames himself for what happened.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	I've Gotten Better At Getting Better

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping
> 
>   
> I apologise for any grammar/spelling mistakes
> 
>   
> Title from 'Mononokay' by Sorority Noise

_It's my fault._

Quill sat on an uncomfortable chair in a hallway of the DEPRAC building, which was attached to Inspector Barnes' office. He could hear Barnes behind him talking to someone on the phone, his voice was - although muffled through the wooden door - still relatively clear, but he wasn't trying to understand what was said. Usually, he would, he would try everything to make out even the tiniest bits of conversation, but not today. Today was different.

He was alone in the hallway - he'd sent Kate and Bobby home because they weren't necessarily needed for this part and they'd both looked like hell. 

Apart from the faint noise coming from behind him, everything was quiet, the silence feeling like a heavy blanket - _like the blanket they had put over his body_ \- and instead, he tried to focus on breathing steadily or keeping his hands from shaking or looking at the wall in front of him, an average, white, empty wall, - _white like his face, empty like his eyes_ -

He took a deep breath.

Focussed on breathing. Just breathing. Nothing else.

Suddenly he became aware of how something had changed, how the silence had grown even louder because Barnes' voice was gone. The call had ended.

He could feel his heart pounding faster in his chest, his breathing going rapid and he had to ball his hands into fists to stop them from trembling so damn much. 

This was it. Any moment Barnes would open the door and call him inside and he would have to give him his report, tell him about what had happened.

_It's my fault. I'm the reason he died._

The mistake he'd made had been minor, or at least it should have been, but the result was fatal. If only he'd stepped in, if only he'd done something, _anything_ , maybe it wouldn't have ended like this.

_Maybe he would still be alive._

But he hadn't, he'd just stood there, blind as he was, unable to see what had suddenly appeared right behind Ned and-

A door opened.

The heavy blanket seemed to have been pulled away with one quick and merciless pull. It felt like someone had emptied a bucket of cold water over his head or clapped their hands right next to his ear.

Somehow he managed it to stand up without his legs giving in and he entered Barnes' office, back straight as possible and gaze as calm and collected as he could manage.

Time for the report.

~

Later, way later, so much later that the sun was already sinking again, Quill finally got back to his flat.

He dumped his keys on the kitchen counter and started making a cup of tea. The movements felt good, familiar, the sound of boiling water grounding and when he carried his cup towards the coffee table he was barely trembling anymore. 

He sat down on the small couch and stared at the cup in front of him.

_He's dead._

His next breath was a bit shaky but still acceptable and he carefully sipped at his tea, the warm liquid heating him up a bit. He hadn't even noticed how cold he'd been feeling, had barely registered the shivers running down his spine, but now he felt them and he slowly sat the cup back down on the table.

_He's dead because of me. I'm the reason he gave his life._

His elbows were resting on his knees and his head fell forward into his hands, fingers curling in his short hair. His breath was ragged and came out in short huffs that were close to sobs.

_It should have been me. I should have died instead of him._

Maybe that was true. Maybe _he_ should have died. Maybe Ned would still be alive if he had died.

Anger flared up inside of him, like a burning flame, feeding on the guilt and shame that was twisting inside his guts, and his grip on his scalp tightened, his knuckles turning white.

_He didn't deserve to die. I'm the one who deserved it. I should have died instead of him._

But he hadn't, he hadn't died, it had been Ned and there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ he could do to change that.

A choked-off sound left his lips and now he was crying, hot tears running down his face and for some reason he _hated_ himself for it, hated every damn drop of salty water that landed on the carpet beneath his feet. Maybe it was because he still _could_ cry; because he was still here and Ned wasn't.

_But this isn't the first time. Ned isn't the only one whose blood is on my hands._

No, this wasn't the first time one of his team members had given their life. _'The highest mortality rate in Fittes'_ , as Cubbins had said. As if he didn't _know_ that. As if he wasn't aware of how many literal _children_ had died because of his failures, his weakness, his _blindness_.

He made an attempt at taking a steadying breath, counting in his head as he breathed in, like he'd heard other people do, counting as he held his breath, and counting again as he breathed back out.

His vision was becoming clearer once the tears stopped filling his eyes, he loosened the grip of his fingers and let out a breathless laugh that could barely be identified as such. He didn't understand how anyone would have thought he'd make a good supervisor, let alone a team leader. 

Here he was, once again, having lost yet another agent.

But that was in the past and he had no control over it anymore, the only thing he could do now was pull himself back together, deal with the consequences and try to move on.

Because unlike Ned, he was still here. And he would still be here by tomorrow, and the next day, and most likely the day after that. He could move on. He could _live_ on. And no matter how much he hated himself for it, he had to do it.

He'd done it before. He was going to do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't kidding about the not sleeping part it's 7am and I'm tired
> 
> Hope you enjoyed


End file.
